Day One
by Moonlighter
Summary: The first day of Quicksilver’s new life after discovering that he is the son of Magneto. Familial discussions with his sister the Scarlet Witch, internal struggles, and migraines commence. Loose sequel to 'First Night'.


Disclaimer:

_Follows a work of fanfiction intended for entertainment purposes only, the creation and publication of which earns its author no monetary profit. All recognizable characters and referenced canonical events are property of Marvel Comics Incorporated. Or Disney, whatever._

**DAY ONE**

Pietro Maximoff woke up as the son of Magneto for the first time. Not since his childhood has he needed to take a moment in the morning to recall how and when he had come to arrive at wherever he lay. Some childhood.

The bed he shared with Crystal, in their home, Attilan, on the moon. Her vacant side was still warm, blankets shoved haphazardly aside. Little Luna crying from the nursery must have woken her recently, if she were lucky enough – judging by the disarray of his own covers and nightclothes, his dreams and thrashing had lasted the remainder of the night. He swung his feet to the floor, hissing at unexpected tenderness in his back and thighs. That impromptu 'brief sprint' the night before had not only turned into an endurance marathon, it also failed miserably to clear his mind.

He went into their bathroom, washed his face, drank some water from the sink. A vague memory stirred – Crystal had helped him into the shower before bed, after he got back from that ridiculous run. He must have been in bad shape to barely remember, to need looking after, to allow her – he should have been pushing himself like that more often. Distracted, he looked up. An ornate ivory-framed mirror sent his reflection starring back at him. He was dehydrated, exhausted, distraught, unshaven. He has high cheekbones, grey eyes, olive complexion, silver hair. His is a look between haughty and haunted, between races, between ages, displaced and timeless. He was Magneto's son, and his head throbbed from trying not to think about it – his soul throbbed from the undeniable truth of it. He turned the light off and went back to bed.

"Are you still asleep?" If he were, it would take more than Crystal's voice from across the room to wake him. For a speedster of his caliber, perception of the world moving at 'normal' pace is relative; among other trials, it takes a degree of concentration to decipher the meaning and nature of speech and sound. At any rate, he would not be able to hold still long enough to fool his wife.

"No."

To his ears, the door closed with a slow creak like nails on a chalkboard, followed by rustling nonsense of movement, then the bedside sinking under Crystal's weight as she sat down. "Wanda and Vision are up now. We've been having tea and chatting. Luna just loves her auntie."

"That's nice."

"Are you getting up?"

"Of course."

"Are you going to open your eyes first, or should I get the camcorder?" He sighed, rubbed his hands over Magneto's facial features, then looked at the mother of Magneto's grandchild smiling down at him. "Good morning," she said, and bent to kiss his temple. "How do you feel?"

He assumed she referred to the night before, specifically the bottle of scotch he downed like a protein shake before she caught him smoking outside. If she were referring to the fact that just yesterday, Magneto himself had appeared at their home to disclose his discovery, that he was the biological father of his former 'employees' Quicksilver and the Scarlet Witch, well, she should know better than to even ask. "Fine. Just tired."

"Mm hm – must have been some workout. I'm surprised you had enough energy left to kick me all night." She brushed aside those unruly locks of hair always flipping over his forehead. Magneto has the same hairline, keeps his cut short, it probably grows much slower. Crystal's teasing tone fell sincere, "Wanda seems all right."

"That's good," Pietro said, knowing full well his twin had wept through the night in her husband's artificial arms, mourning the mother she lost who wasn't even real and the real one she lost who she never even knew – the fake father she lost twice and the true father who twice gave her life. She would be wearing extra makeup this morning to conceal the redness on her nose and the darkness under her eyes. She would act cheerful and go binge shopping and play dressup. She would be every bit as devastated as her brother, on the inside, and neither of them would speak of it.

"Well, get dressed and come out with us, okay? I'll go start breakfast." She kissed him again and left.

He found something simple and colorless to wear, stripped it all off and donned a clean uniform instead. In the kitchen, his sister and her husband, the android Vision, were seated at a round table that Crystal set some fruit down on, still smiling the same smile that said she did not quite understand what everyone was so bothered about. Maybe she never would.

"They do not have razors in Attilan?" Wanda asked lightly.

Pietro had not noticed that she even looked up from where little Luna sat cooing in her lap. He took the chair next to his sister, offering up a finger to his daughter's eager clutches. "Forgive me, I could not bear to be delayed a moment longer before joining your polite company."

Half of her mouth half smiled – their mother's half. She kissed Luna's cheek before twisting to pass the squirming child to her father. "I was just about to ask Crystal if I could burrow my niece for a few years sometime soon." Crystal's laughter rang out from the kitchen. Wanda shook her head, still focused on Luna. "I am so happy for you, brother. She is precious."

Receiving her, he made a conscious effort to avoid his brother-in-law's gaze. "She is." He had wondered long and hard enough what his sister must have been thinking or feeling or forgetting to marry an android. As much as most people love children, the Roma were no exception; they measured the success and happiness of their very lives by the size of their family. It should have been culturally ingrained within her to at least…no. Pietro forced those thoughts out of his pounding head, and settled Magneto's grandchild into the nook of his arm for her nap. "Sleep well?" he heard himself ask.

Wanda tapped a perfect red nail on the teacup, lowering her bloodshot eyes to take a sip, and said, "Like a baby."

Crying, confused, and inconsolable. Pietro nodded. Super-speed made detecting awkward silences nearly impossible, but Crystal arrived just in time with a pan of quiche and a pot of oatmeal and a basket of pastries and anyone who was physiologically inclined to eat ate, then the women talked recipes for a while and cleaned up.

The son of Magneto would have been content holding his father's granddaughter for as long as she slept, but Crystal had it in her head that babies should grow accustomed to cradles and schedules and their own room – Pietro was not raised with furniture or clocks or books on how to rear children, but since they had guests and he had a headache he did not argue this time and let his wife take Luna away to the nursery. She returned in the middle of another silence that no speedster would recognize as any longer or more awkward or boring than the last. She gave her husband her most potent Meaningful Look that he struggled to interpret when Vision spoke up from the porch door where he had migrated during breakfast.

"Is that your own garden there that you keep, Crystal? I wonder if you would be inclined to give me a tour." He turned smiling, synthetic and monotone from head to red-skinned toe, "Although it might seem contrary, I have been accused of having something of a green thumb."

Never one to pass up attention, Crystal fairly sprang at the opportunity, and they disappeared outside within seconds.

Wanda had not noticeably moved. She still gazed where her niece had last lain sleeping, and spoke as though recalling a dream. "Crystal said you both wanted to have more than one child – before. I would have assumed so, of course, but…" Hers was a look of faraway places and otherwordly things, of broken spells and innocence lost. He used to search her face for memories of their mother – he found no answers there anymore, a stranger's canvas. "Will you still, now?"

In his mind he watched his wife shrink from his touch, the way he recoiled from himself inside, disowning him the way Magda had deserted her husband, turning against him the way he has turned against Magneto. He imagined his children looking upon him with dread for what they might become, growing to wish they had not been born with such a hard and bloody legacy to bear – the way he and Wanda looked upon their own father. He shut both eyes and sought deep down for the unwavering love he felt on his wedding day, for the profound contentment born within him the first time he held his daughter, the warmth of his family all around, the dawning light of bright days ahead. All he felt was naked and tainted in front of a broken mirror, cautious stares fixed upon him from all angles in surrounding darkness. "I do not know."

"Well…you should. I mean, you should know what you want, and you should strive to make it happen, same as before. Having a family is the most basic right of any living being, something we all deserve. This…ugly business with Magneto is just a technicality, really. Right? All our lives we have made a path for ourselves and surmounted vast odds, now must be no different. I refuse to change on account of anyone else, I refuse compromise. He controlled my life once, and for long enough – never again!"

All her life she had wanted to be a mother, so Wanda married a machine. She grew up a mutant gypsy witch, so she left her super-hero career to live like a normal person. Always her brother had protected and sustained her, so she defies him whenever it matters most. Pietro quietly shunned her advice. His life was difficult enough without taunting chaos at every opportunity just for the challenge of it. He had nothing to prove. "Forgive my selfishness, sister – for a moment I thought we were talking about me."

"We-" blinking, she sat up straight from where she had been slumped tracing furious little patterns on the tabletop. "We were. I was. I mean-"

"Never mind. Please tell Crystal I have a migraine and went to lie down. Hurting like this, I fear I will not be pleasant company today – you all should leave without me, go enjoy yourselves." He was already turning the hall corner and barely discerned a 'feel better' or 'something brother' from her.

Back in bed, he wavered between a dreamless, restless, pointless sleep and idly ignoring the white noises and static sensations of the world crawling all around him. He woke as the son of Magneto for the second time, an ice cold rag compressed against his brow. Gentle hands situated a heating pad under his neck, and began to massage his temples. The aroma of sandalwood and mint filled the air, with mumbled half-forgotten lullabies in a language native to only one other soul on the lunar surface. Slowly, mercifully, the worst of the pain ebbed away.

"Does it make any difference, Pietro, do you think? We both feel such a real connection to our homeland, the place of our birth – but it is a part of our _life_, of our experiences and of our hearts, it is our home and we belong there. But our blood…is that any more than anatomy, is that not just bad luck and happenstance? We do not belong to our bodies, and not to our father through them – do we?"

"This is not a matter of belonging, Wanda. It is as you said, a connection. Spiritual or physical or mental, it exists all the same, and it is very real. So the answer is yes. I'm sorry. You are the daughter of Magneto."

"But will it really make a difference?"

Pietro opened his eyes, raised a hand to touch the light of dusk upon his twin's face. Hers was the descended look of a woman he never knew – a daughter, sister, wife, mother, _Romni_. Maybe he knew her after all. "We are going to find out, Wanda."

"I'm scared." And she was, he could see it, he could feel it in the form of a hot tear tumbling down his hand.

He said, "I will protect you," even though he could not, "everything will be all right," even though he did not believe it. In one movement she swung herself around and was lying curled up beside him, as though they were children again – terrorized, sad, damned little children, but together. Some childhood indeed. They spoke no more, and they did not sleep.

***fin***


End file.
